


Of Wings and Bags and Heads

by huxualorentation



Category: Lo chiamavano Jeeg Robot | They Call Me Jeeg (2015)
Genre: Actually it's Major CharacterS DeathS, Cannizzardo, Fabio is intelligent and so say all of us, Fathers Unworthy of Being Called That, Gypsythug, Homophobia, M/M, Missing Moments, Movie Timeline, Riccabio, Zingardo, so much passion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26530957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huxualorentation/pseuds/huxualorentation
Summary: A self-taught aesthete, Fabio keeps a lamp on his office desk in the shape of the Nike of Samothrace—the Winged Victory, because that’s the embodiment of what he longs for: sprouting wings and flying to a successful life. Winning.
Relationships: Fabio Cannizzaro | Zingaro/Riccardo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Of Wings and Bags and Heads

**Author's Note:**

> Feeling surrounded by wonderful women in the fandom gave me the strength to watch the whole movie (see author's note at the beginning of TMWTSI), so I was able to write part of it from a certain disgusting character's POV and to include a detail from his physical appearance.  
> Read the warnings and tags and stay safe, my friends! And if you feel bad after reading, don't hesitate to ask for virtual cuddles!

Her yummy pussy. So tight, so warm—though never wet. His fingers and his cock can never slide in comfortably, she is never wet for him, the ungrateful little bitch. “It hurts, it hurts,” she whines every time. Of course it does, you stupid, serves you right for not being juicy as a proper woman should. Well, he is a doting father, a considerate father, and he will get her a husband who will provide for her once Daddy’s no longer around. Someone that he can benefit from being the father-in-law of—someone respected, feared. Because, as much as Sergio dislikes him, Mario Cannizzaro’s son is going to go far. He’s not into women, Sergio can tell—look at him and Riccardo, look at the groping that’s going on under the pretense of the two of them talking—but that’s beside the point: it doesn’t have to be a passion-fuelled love story, the girl only needs a man to keep her safe, actually it’s way better if they don’t have sex and she doesn’t make babies, seeing as she’s a goddamn baby herself. But look, look! Mario must be turning in his grave! (Giulia, nicknamed “la Bella”, must probably be smiling benevolently. Useless music-loving whore, who died in childbirth, and good riddance). Disgusting. Not like what he does to his daughter, who is a woman and therefore a suitable recipient of his desire, as per Nature’s laws. Not that Sergio would dare to say anything... should he voice his thoughts, Riccardo’s hand, the same hand now discreetly fondling the other man’s hip, would be around his throat in a second, choke him within an inch of his life, and throw him at Zingaro’s feet for him to deliver the coup de grâce with his kalashnikov. No, thank you very much indeed. What a shit of a workplace is it, where a good man can’t voice his thoughts? He isn’t even free to say “niggers”—the insolent Cannizzaro whelp shushes him every time. Fuck him: does he think that bearing that ancient Roman name, Fabio, makes him some kind of emperor? Anyway, he’s fit for pleasing the stupid little bitch. He’s charming (not that Sergio is into men, God forbid), he is always clean and well-shaven and nice-smelling (which Sergio finds exceedingly unmanly), he can even prove _sweet_ —when he pets his favourite dogs (murmuring nonsenses such as “You know, I’m imprisoned too..."), when he chats with the children who come looking for a dog to take home. _Well, let’s go talking to him._

“Fabié!”

“What do you want, Sè?” Fabio replies as he indolently swaggers away from Riccardo, slapping his wandering hands because he takes great pleasure in driving him crazy with frustrated desire—the arrogant whelp.

“I don’t think I have shown you my most recent tattooo...” Sergio begins, only to be cut off by Zingaro’s surprised cry as Riccardo possessively yanks him back.

“Oh, Sergio, he’ll be the death of me!” proclaims Fabio in a theatrical sigh. “He’s insatiable! Keep your hands to yourself for a minute, Riccà, there’s an elderly gentleman here!”

_I’ll show you elderly, you insufferable... No, no, I must be patient, and soon people will be whispering when they see me, “He’s Zingaro’s father-in-law!”_

“I was saying, have a look at this tattoo.” Sergio unbuttons his shirt. “The Winged Sword! I have chosen the design in my daughter’s honour, she loves that Steel Jeeg anime! You know my Alessia, yes?”

“Must have seen her around. Well, that’s a fine tattoo, though I don’t know the first thing about anime. Never been into that stuff as a child. When I wasn’t singing, I was playing with this champion here...” Zingaro gives Riccardo a look that’s full of something stretching way beyond mere physical desire.

Sperma, who looks up to Fabio as to a demigod, butts in, telling his boss about the tattoo he’s thinking of getting. And Sergio, seeing as the three younger men are soon talking and laughing between them, walks out in quiet disappointment, leaving marketing Alessia for another occasion.

* * *

“A winged sword... nice, really. But the sword I’m interested in is Riccardo’s!, and the wings are yours, my Goddess.” Fabio bows threatrically before his little Nike of Samothrace, a desk lamp in the shape of the famous sculpture, to which he’s in the habit of talking when he’s alone in his office. He has been made leave school by his father as soon as permitted by the Italian law, but he has never stopped striving to learn as much as he can about everything that is... not “beautiful”, that is a matter of taste, is mostly in the mind of the beholder—everything that is _meaningful_. Where did his favourite singers draw inspiration for their outfits from? How do dancers manage to tell a story through movement only? This winged figure is the _iconography_ —this is the word—of Victory. That’s the reason why she has wings on her. If you are victorious, you fly: over the battlefields, away from your past, into your future. It’s her whom Fabio prays, when he feels the need to. He likes that she’s a female, like the wonderful artists whose voices and lyrics keep him putting one foot in front of the other through every shitstorm. And he can only pray Someone who is a warrior. Jesus Christ he can respect, for he was a fearless rebel: but, _forgiving your enemies_? Come on, JC.

He remembers bragging to Riccardo, in bed together the night after he treated himself to buying the Nike.

_“I will be victorious. I bear the name of a famous Roman general!”_

_“Was that Fabio guy a general? I was sure he was an emperor...?”_

_“Aw, Riccà, you don’t remember shit from school, do you!”_

_“Well, you are my emperor. Wait wait, this means you may have me sentenced to death!” Kisses. Sighs. Moans. Fabio circling Riccardo’s neck with his arms from where he lies supine in abandon._

_Replying, “No. I am your slave...”_

_“You know what? You bear a great English king’s name,” he murmurs as they rest in each other’s arms afterwards. “Richard I? The Third Crusade? Rings any bells?”_

_“No.”_

_“Come on, Riccà, he’s famous! He was mostly known by his nickname, just like one of us: Cuor di Leone.”_

_“Hey, now that’s a nickname I like! Cuor di Leone! How cool!”_

* * *

“He’s been shoving his hands down my panties since I was a little girl.”

The men freeze, shocked into one neverending second of defeaning silence. Even among ruthless outlaws, _doing_ _things_ to children can’t be condoned. Perpetrators of this crime have a hard time in jail—Sperma, who has been in jail, has actually partaken in teaching one of those abominable beings a lesson. All that Fabio can think of is Sergio telling him about getting the winged sword tattoo “in his daughter’s honour”. _Oh, such a loving father, you bastard!_ He can understand the pain haunting the rape survivor in front of them like no one of the others can: for, though his own father has only ever touched him in the way of beating him, he has sent him to crimelords’ beds many, many, many times. They were all more than happy: that didn’t count as “making love to a man”, of course.

_Listen, I don’t have the money, okay? But I have a very young son. Pretty boy—Giulia la Bella’s son, beautiful like her._

Fabio’s, Riccardo’s, Sperma’s, and Claudio’s faces are masks of mute horror. None of them notices Tazzina smiling a wolfish grin, as if he had heard some spicy gossip.

* * *

Once out of the car where they have argued over the best course of action, Riccardo stops in his tracks.

“Fabié.”

“Oh, mamma mia, what’s wrong with you today!”

“You have heard the girl saying... that Sergio has been doing things to her for years now.”

Fabio swallows. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

“So... what are we going to do once we find him?”

Fabio swallows. He breathes. He looks at them all. “We’ll deal with _that_ ,” he says, simply. “I promise, I _swear_ , that we will.”

Fabio’s, Riccardo’s, and Sperma’s jaws are clenched.

Tazzina appears to be engrossed in some serious shoegazing.

* * *

Nike, victory. A suitable name for a sportswear brand. Their logo is the Swoosh. It’s a shoulder bag by Nike, marked with the Swoosh, that Riccardo is carrying as he walks out of Fabio’s office, heading to his appointment with Marcellone, walks the yard, walks to his death. Fabio sits in his armchair, the Nike lamp on his desk, props his feet up, and thinks of sitting on a shared throne. _We could have been victorious together, could have ruled together, fucked on our throne. Oh, my Lionhearted! A lion, killed by dogs!_

* * *

It’s a severed head that lands on the Ponte Trovajoli. The body deep down in the River Tiber is headless, like the Nike’s.


End file.
